


Four Letter Words

by siennna



Series: The Particular Affliction 'verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Johnlock - Freeform, Kiss smut, M/M, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Romance, Unofficial Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1851649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennna/pseuds/siennna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Lust is more of a snowball than anything; it gathers itself quite gradually via fantasies, dreams, and dark thoughts that loom in the corners of the mind, until one day it is just a huge, destructive mass that plows through one's entire life like a wrecking ball."</p><p>A sequel of sorts to "The Particular Affliction of Addiction and Affection".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Letter Words

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hey guys! So I came across some free time and decided to write a sequel to "The Particular Affliction of Addiction and Affection"! Well, I suppose technically it's not a sequel because it occurs before "The Particular Affliction", but whatever you guys get the point :)
> 
> This is their first kiss-against the bookshelf-that is briefly referenced in "Particular Affliction". Turned out a bit more T-rated than I originally intended, but I doubt that'll be a problem for you guys ;) Don't forget to review, loves!
> 
> Enjoy :)

* * *

John, something has been building between us for the past several months—perhaps as long as we've known each other, even—and though I'm unsure of whether you're aware of it or not, I know that _I_ certainly am. It is an electric and fizzing sensation that has been stirring low in my abdomen for what feels like lifetimes, and I suppose I'd have to be an idiot to not recognize it for what it is.

Lust.

Oh, what a tricky little minx of a feeling.

Aside from being wholly unhelpful and at times detrimental, lust is the first step to complete and utter destruction. Though, I suppose it is misleading to call it the 'first step', because that implies that the subsequent 'steps' can be avoided. Unfortunately, that is not the case.

Lust is more of a snowball than anything; it gathers itself quite gradually via fantasies, dreams, and dark thoughts that loom in the corners of the mind, until one day it is just a huge, destructive mass that plows through one's entire life like a wrecking ball. It is not a first step, it is the _only_ step preceding the mass destruction of reason, logic, and all other things I hold dear. To put it simply, once lust has struck, all is lost.

Suffice to say, John, all is lost.

. . .

Today, we sit across next to each other on the couch, the telly droning in the background, while you recount your day to me.

You are speaking about the clinic, about a screaming child and an irate mother and a ridiculously long queue, and I find myself with the strangest urge to kiss you. It would be fairly simple, too. The inches between us could easily disappear if only I were to lean forward and tilt my mouth against yours. I'm not yet sure if I will, but I certainly want to.

Strange things, impulses.

Now you're rolling your eyes, and I can't help but follow the circular revolution of those two navy-colored orbs with rapt attention, which causes me to completely miss whatever recollection is making you express annoyance. So as not to arouse suspicion, I make a vague noise that can be interpreted as agreement or amusement, and you find it satisfactory enough to continue speaking.

Your lips have a delightful shape to them, John. I wonder if you've noticed that before— though I'm sure you haven't, since you hardly seem like the sort of man that preens before the mirror each morning, ogling his best features. (Though you should; you certainly have an abundance of striking features to pick from). Regardless, they are absolutely divine, especially when pulled into a brilliant smile.

It's odd, I _know_ , but right now I'd very much like to lean over and suck on your bottom lip. Maybe gently bite it, too; I have a feeling you'd enjoy that mix of pleasure and pain. Then, perhaps I'll run my tongue along the seam of your lips, darting into your warm, wet mouth in between sweet, imbibing kisses. Maybe I'll thread my fingers through your hair—actually, no, that's too chaste. It's more likely that I'll allow my hands to explore hungrily across the planes of your body, over your back, the muscles of your abdomen, and the soft, warm skin right behind your ear that I'll tease mercilessly with my tongue. I'll rest my hands at your hipbones and—

Er—anyway.

Yes, I'm clearing my throat now and very causally crossing my legs, which you thankfully do not notice because as always, you see but do not observe. I suppose in this instance I ought to be grateful.

Alright, now you're standing.

You're moving over to the bookcase because you'd like to show me something in one of the medical textbooks I bought you for your birthday; apparently something horrendous that one of your clients was afflicted with today. Interesting yes, quite interesting; perhaps you'll allow me to tag along tomorrow and examine the specimen—er, _client_ myself. Strange and ghastly skin maladies do peak my interest, I must say.

Oh. Right. Okay—now you're bent over and shuffling around for the book. Bent over in _jeans._

Before I go further, allow me to say that just for the record, John, I don't particularly care for jeans. I never have; they are just so informal and painfully _pedestrian._

But, of course, when I formed that opinion I was not considering how they might look when wrapped around your—for a lack of a better term—pleasantly shaped bum.

However, I am definitely not staring; I am merely scrutinizing the stich work on the back pockets. Obviously.

And I am clearing my throat again and dropping a pillow into my lap because my throat's a bit hoarse and decorative pillows are quite comfortable to sit with. Okay? Nothing more.

"Sherlock?"

I've been silent for too long, it appears. You motion over for me to help you find the book, and since any excuse to share close proximity sounds lovely, I hastily cross the room to join you. I'm standing right behind you now, my body looming over yours like a great shadow, which you don't seem to mind for one of two reasons: either you're so used to our complete lack of personal space that this hardly registers as odd, or—and this possibility is preferable—this your is subtle encouragement for the delicious things I have in mind.

For the moment, I suppose I'll pretend to shuffle around for the book over your shoulder, casually snake my arms around your waist under the pretense of reaching for a particularly low-shelved novel. You're muttering the titles under your breath as you run an index finger across their spines, clearly more invested in this task than I. Perhaps it's time I bring your focus back to me, then.

I stoop a bit and rest my chin against the warm junction between your neck and shoulder. When I move my head fractionally to the right, my mouth is delightfully close to the side of your neck. How easy it would be to latch onto this flushed plane of skin and suck a wine-colored mark into your throat, irrevocably deeming you _mine._

"Sherlock?"

A question. Your searching hands have stilled on the books and your breathing is somewhat uneven, but your fingers remain clamped onto the shelf, seemingly for support. I'm not quite sure where to go from this point, John. Just…turn around so I can see your face, please? I need to—I need to see you. Read you like the beautiful, expressive book that you are and finally figure out if this— _this_ —is something that you want as desperately as I do.

"John?"

You turn around and stare up at me, your dark eyes practically obsidian from your large pupils blown wide with arousal. It's like staring into twin pools of ink, except your gaze possesses something wild within its black depths, something reminiscent of the raging, powerful ocean at midnight. My fingers absently reach for your wrist, settle against the hardy thrum of your pulse. _Bu-bum. Bu-bum. Bu-bum._

Your lips part slightly, releasing soft little pants of breath, and you whisper, " _What do you want?"_

What do I want?

Oh, John, I want so many things. I want to grab you round the waist and pull our bodies flush together, your face tucked into my collarbones and my lips poised against the crown of your head, until there is not a single second of time or space left between us. I want to interlace our fingers like a knot, like a promise, and thank you for never leaving, never hating me or condemning me or judging me even when you had every right. I want to open up my heart and show you how pitifully barren it was until you worked your way in there, with your kind smiles, unspoken promises, endless patience, and steadfast loyalty. I—I want to kiss you, kiss the very last breath from your lungs only to revive you each time; I want to explore the delicious caverns of your mouth, the soft curve of your arched spine, the slopes of your calves, and the sharp jut of your hipbones against the wide palms of my hands. I want to acquaint myself with every part of you: I wish to press my fingertips gently to your wrist and feel the life pounding through your veins, I wish to run my tongue along the white knoll of your Adams apple and the sensitive skin behind your ear.

I want to know how your calloused hands would feel in mine; warm, rough, and strong just like the earth in all of its mellow constancy.

I want so much, John, I'm aching with it, shivering with it, but right now…right now I just want you. Plain and simple. Whatever you are willing to offer, I will take.

Carefully—so painstakingly _carefully_ —I lean forward and press our lips together once, in a sound, chaste kiss that audibly smacks as I pull away. You grin, wide and beaming. Something bright sparkles inside your irises, nebulas and stars exploding into existence across the galaxy of your eyes. You place your hand on the back of my neck and draw me down, slotting our mouths together with a natural ease that would suggest we've been doing this for ages.

And it's just—it's just so—so absolutely bloody _perfect_ that I can't breathe, which doesn't matter because breathing is boring and this is most decidedly _not._

Our lips move together like the ebb and flow of the ocean, pulling, pushing, sucking against the shore and then drawing back to the steady tick of a metronome. Our mingled breathing is staccato, yet beautiful in its discordance and faltering symmetry.

And, John? I was right.

I was entirely correct when I said that Lust leads to destruction, because right now I can feel years and years of loneliness being destroyed, my walls are crumbling down, and the pillars that hold up my palace of isolation and solitude are crashing to the ground in the most beautiful chaos imaginable. Stars melt across the backs of my eyelids, books tumble from the shelves in a hectic, delightful manner, and for the first time in my life I feel utterly, jarringly _alive_.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> So what did you guys think? I'd really love to know your feedback on this, as I've never really attempted to write a 'sequel' to any of my one shots before. I may write more little one shots in this 'verse in the future, but I'm not sure when. 
> 
> This was so much fun writing and I hope you guys liked it!
> 
> Until next time, darlings! X0X0


End file.
